


I Know It's Over

by dragonQuill907



Series: Smithslock Oneshots [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, hallucination, tw death, tw drug use, what are tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 03:43:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8234915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonQuill907/pseuds/dragonQuill907
Summary: An account of what transpired immediately after the wedding of John Watson and Mary MorstanBased on the song "I Know It's Over" by The Smiths.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Since I'm obsessed with both The Smiths and Sherlock, I'm combining the two to make... whatever this is. Each fic is a oneshot that is based on a song by The Smiths.
> 
> Requests for AUs (femlock, teenlock, soulmates, whatever) are welcome because these are going to be kind of random.
> 
> Also, feedback fuels me so leave kudos and maybe a comment? :)
> 
> Thanks to @EmmaLockWrites for being a fabulous beta as usual

 

 

This fanfiction is based on the song "I Know It's Over" by The Smiths. The lyrics are [here](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/smiths/iknowitsover.html) and the song itself is [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bAJ_74tDZzU)

* * *

 

 

The wedding was over, and Sherlock was having considerable difficulties staying on his feet for very much longer. There were drinks, and there were toasts, and so many boring people smiled at him that he’d lost count. Funnily enough, he knew that John had smiled at him exactly twenty-eight times, not counting the smirks or laughs at something Sherlock had said. The rest of the guests weren’t important; Sherlock only had eyes for John - had only  _ ever _ had eyes for John.

Hadn’t he said as much in his speech? Oh, but perhaps he’d said _too much._ He’d given away the news about the baby, after all. Anyone who had heard that part of it probably knew, and _everyone_ had heard that part. Sherlock giggled as he remembered the moment he had explained his deductions to John and Mary. As Sherlock laughed quietly to himself, he thought that perhaps the drugs were working better than usual. Or maybe it’d just been the amount he’d used. He hadn’t been careful like before, like he had been when he was concerned about living. He had measured lazily, injected as much as he felt like, and simply threw the needle across the room.

Without John in Sherlock’s life, did anything really have purpose?

The detective doubted it, and tried to shake the thoughts out of his head, weaving his hands through his hair and tugging at his curls. He sighed loudly, as no one was around to hear him, and braced himself on the sides of the couch to pull himself to his feet. He stumbled frequently and had to lean on a few walls, but eventually he made it to his bedroom, stripping off the white button up he still wore and shucking off his pants. As Sherlock climbed into an empty bed, he thanked a deity he didn’t believe in for the sweet release that was cocaine.

As if he hoped John would walk through the door at any moment, Sherlock stayed on the left side of his bed, gazing longingly at the other half. He could imagine John there easily, smiling softly at him, running his calloused hands through Sherlock’s curls, pressing sweet kisses to Sherlock’s forehead. He slowly reached a hand for the other half of himself, but instead he felt cold sheets. 

With Sherlock’s faculties compromised by his drug of choice, he was unsurprised to find tears burning at the back of his eyes. He blinked once, twice, trying to disperse them but only succeeding in letting them fall across his nose and soak into his hair. The detective closed his eyes tightly, taking a deep breath and accepting that John was  _ not there. _

When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was met the sight of John -  _ John!  _ \- standing at the foot of his bed, a scowl etched deep into his pleasant features. Sherlock knew, of course, that John could not be there. He was at home, with his wife, packing for their honeymoon. Useless sex holiday. It made Sherlock sick to think of it.

John smiled sadly down at Sherlock, almost as if he were a child who had failed an easy test. The detective nearly vomited on his bed sheets.

"If you’re so clever, then why are you on your own tonight?" John asked quietly.

"John, please-"

"Sherlock," John snapped, silencing him. "Why do you sleep alone tonight?"

"You left  _ me," _ Sherlock insisted.

"I know," the blond interrupted, scowling. "It’s because tonight is just like any other night." Sherlock closed his eyes as John continued berating him.  _ "That’s  _ why you’re on your own tonight."

Sherlock winced, aware that, at some corner of his mind, he knew it was only himself making this painful. These were his fears, his  _ insecurities, _ and he was unfairly projecting them onto John, even though he knew it was wrong. John would never be this cruel to him, not intentionally. John was good, and Sherlock was not.

"I don’t  _ need _ anyone," Sherlock protested weakly. He sounded to himself like a petulant toddler, but it had taken everything he had to respond in something other than tears.

"No, of course not," John scoffed. "What with all your triumphs and your charms, you don’t need anyone. And nobody needs you."

_ "Please." _

"You’re here alone, high as a bloody kite, while they’re in each other’s arms."

Sherlock’s heart ached as he turned back towards John. "What?"

"Oh, don’t think I don’t know how you feel, Sherlock," John laughed. "Don’t worry. Love is natural and real, but… not for you."

"I love you, John," Sherlock whispered, burying his face in his pillow and clenching his eyes shut. "I love you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry."

A gentle, familiar hand cupped Sherlock’s jaw, and the detective was forced to open his eyes once again, looking desperately into endless pools of deep, dark blue.

"John," Sherlock rasped as the doctor smiled.

"Hello, love," he said, and Sherlock let out an undignified sob, clinging to John’s solid body.

"You’re not real," Sherlock whispered, forcing himself to believe it. "You’re not John."

"Of course I’m not really here," John replied softly, "but why should that mean I’m not with you?"

Sherlock shook his head before burying it in John’s neck. "That doesn’t even make any sense."

"Does it have to?"

The detective shook with a small, pained laugh. "No," Sherlock said. "No, never. As long as you’re here."

"I am, love."

Sherlock lay quietly for a few moments, enjoying their closeness. He could feel John’s chest move against his own, but not a trace of warm breath rustled his hair. John’s strong arms were wrapped around his back, but no heat radiated from them. Sherlock didn’t mind.

"I don’t know where else I can go if you’re not by my side," he said finally.

"I’ll always be by your side, Sherlock."

"I love you," the detective replied. "More than she does, even. She needs you more than she loves you."

"I love you," John replied, "and only you."

Sherlock pulled away from John carefully, studying the lines and curves of the blond man’s face. John’s thin lips quirked as Sherlock’s eyes roamed over his features.

"I know it’s over," Sherlock said, "but it never really began, did it?"

"Oh, but in your heart," John protested, smiling sweetly, "in your heart, Sherlock, it was so real."

Sherlock nodded, tears burning the back of his eyes. "I love you, John. I’m sorry I couldn’t say it before."

John shook his head. "No, love, don’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault."

"It is," the detective protested.

"No, no, no," John insisted. "Shh. Just lay still with me, will you?"

"John," Sherlock whispered urgently, "John, I can’t breathe."

John stroked Sherlock’s back gently. "It’s all right, Sherlock."

"The sea wants to take me, John. The knife wants to slit me."

"I know, love. Don’t fight it," John whispered, chuckling. "Christ, you’re poetic when you’re high."

"Do you think you can help me?" Sherlock asked, ignoring John’s previous comment. "Please, John. Can you help me?"

"Not tonight, my love."

"I can feel the soil falling over my head," Sherlock whispered, drawing ragged breaths.

"I know," John said, wrapping his arms tighter around Sherlock’s shaking body. "It’s all right. You made a mistake, but I’m making it better."

Sherlock nodded. "John Watson, you keep me right."

"Always, love."

The detective wheezed pitifully in John’s arms for the next few moments before speaking again.

"Love is natural and real," he said, repeating John’s earlier words.

"But not for such as you and I, my love," John said.

"John-"

"Shh, love. Just close your eyes, yeah?" John pulled Sherlock closer to his chest, running his hands up and down Sherlock’s spine. "Let the sea take you, Sherlock."

Sherlock clutched John tighter and nodded. "Will you kiss me, John?"

John’s lips were pleasantly cool against Sherlock’s as they kissed. The blond pulled away slowly, and Sherlock closed his eyes.

~*~

"Sir," asked Donovan softly, staring at the Fr-  _ Sherlock’s _ clenched hands, "what is he- what was he holding?"

Lestrade shook his head, his throat tightening. "Evidence will take care of it. We- We should find who did this."

Donovan bit her bottom lip, staring up at her boss, concerned. "We found the needle under the sofa, sir, and another on the fireplace. He overdosed. I think- I think he did it on purpose."

"No, he’s - he was clean. He was clean. He promised," Lestrade insisted, taking a few steadying breaths. "Someone must have… poisoned him or something. He was clean."

"Sir-"

"He was  _ clean, _ Donovan,” Lestrade snapped, turning away from both Donovan and the body.

A moment of silence passed as Donovan realized she wouldn’t be able to convince her boss of the truth without the help of the inevitable autopsy.

"I can’t- I have to go."

"Sir, do we call Dr. Watson?" called Donovan, stepping closer to Sherlock’s body.

"I’ll take care of it."

Donovan’s dark eyes widened considerably as she realized what he was holding to his chest, close to his unbeating heart. 

"Sir-"

"I said  _ I’ll take care of it,"  _ snapped Lestrade from the hall. "Don’t make me say it again."

Donovan inhaled and nodded sharply. She turned from the bed and left for the Yard, dreading the report she would have to fill out when she got back. She couldn’t stop thinking about the needle, the Watsons’ wedding and honeymoon, the way Sherlock had clutched the familiar jumper like it was the only thing keeping him on this Earth.

It hadn’t worked.

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm working on that potterlock I mentioned in one or two fics before. Still on year one, and it's like 20k. So. Progress report for ya.  
> Also I have 2 more fanfics to upload maybe in like a month or two because I'm doing nanowrimo again and might not have time to write fanfic. So yeah.


End file.
